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Oily George’s latest erotic masterpiece has been described by crticis as a clear satire on the youth obsessed Western culture. “Hand Shandy III” will be available soon on DVD in wankvision.

Hello Oily

You are great and so sexy – how do you do it?

Shiney Sheena, Wisconsin

Heeelllooooo Sheena,

Kind of you to say so and thank you for the photo. Usually I have to ask/badger/beg my ladies to send their portraits but looking at you, my you are enthusiastic. And ambidextereous. A fact I am logging in the darkest recesses of my febrile mind.

How do I maintain my sexiness? Well as you can see from my profile, I model myself on close personal friend and fellow Oil Spill, George Hamilton.

The dear chap has taught me so much about how to slither through life. He was the inspiration that got me into the How-Do-They-Do-That market that I cater for. I doff my fedora to the slippery one

Oily

 

 

 

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Hello,

I avoid getting involved in round robin memes as it feels oxymoronic for a blog that celebrates the absurd and nonsensical to explain itself in anyway.

However, I was invited by the wonderful Kathryn Grid at art colored glasses to talk about my writing. This is a different story. Because Kathryn is wonderful. Plain and simple. She has a clarity of thought and writing style that explains why this blogging lark is so enjoyable. Whether it be poetry, art, photography or beautifully written pieces about modern-day life I always find her insights enjoyable.

I am late with this exercise, partly because I was in heavy training for a half marathon, partly because the PC required the brawny yet caring hands of Trevor the ‘puter repair man (scuppering a few sausageifications I might add) but mostly due to inertia.

So apologies Kathryn for missing your deadline!

The rules of the process are that I answer four questions about how I write and nominate three others.

What am I working on at the moment?

I am putting the finishing touches to a set of stories all written on trains and have finally prepared the skeleton for a novel which will consume me for years to come.

I am also through Gingerfightback seeking to get “Nonsense with a purpose” included into the political lexicon of Britain in time for the General Election in 2015.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

No idea.

I concentrate on writing good stories with engaging characters that makes the reader want to get to the end of the story.

Why do I write what I do?

It is the way my brain works. I have an aversion to long windedness. Flowery writing drives me potty. Cherish words – don’t waste them.

How does my writing process work?

Notepad and pen. Always scribbling. Arrows and balloons. Get the narrative and then characterisation (my handwriting is so abysmal that the transfer to the screen is a slow and expletive laden process). Once I am happy with the structure, rewrite the thing. Remove excessive words. Rewrite. Third or fourth draft I might be happy with. Probably not so rewrite with the aim of removing more words.

I am a morning person.

And now, I nominate these three writers to participate in a Writing Process Blog Meme:

I nominated the people below because;

  • I have enjoyed reading their work
  • They hail from the British Isles
  • Their work covers adult and children’s literature and also poetry

Jackie @ http://barbedwords.wordpress.com/

Holly Anne @ http://hollyannegetspoetic.wordpress.com

JD @http://jdgallagher.wordpress.com

If you accept my nomination, please write an article prompted by the following four questions and post it on your blog sometime in the future. You’ll also nominate three writers of your choice to post their articles on their blogs again at sometime in the future. The four questions are;

What am I working on at the moment?

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Why do I write what I do?

How does my writing process work?

Don’t worry if you don’t want to do it!

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YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS!

YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS!

The Puppet

“York? Fookin Shitehole!” shouted the Geordie.

At first, hearing every town at which the train stopped described as a “Fookin’ Shitehole!” had a certain earthy charm.

But not after three hours and twelve such outbursts.

Furthermore the carriage was CLEARLY DESIGNATED as Quiet, a point re-emphasised by the ever so helpful onboard team (By the by, the egg and cress sandwiches were a particular delight on this journey).

Needing an evacuation, I turned off my iPod (Beethoven has become de rigueur on long journeys and to have it drowned out with fruity language is very disconcerting) stood and walked towards the toilet.

Fortunately, toilets on modern trains allow flushing within the station. Many’s the time when waiting on a platform, I would be confronted by freshly laid droppings as a train pulled away. I praise the engineers who solved the riddle of flushing a train’s toilet in the station locale. Upon such minor improvements can we benchmark human progress.

Having soaped, washed, rinsed and dried my hands all within the confines of a small, brilliantly designed basin, I returned to my seat with a pleasantly empty bowel and re-engaged Beethoven’s stirring symphonies.

The Geordie sat five or so rows away.  He was large. Squeezed into a Parka jacket several sizes too small. The Parka bore a variety of badges. Food stains pocked his T-shirt.

Then as if shouting, “Fookin’ Shitehole!”  wasn’t enough, he produced a glove puppet.

Sweep from the Sooty Show. Holding the puppet to his ear he said, “What’s that Sweep? You think York’s a Fookin’ Shitehole too?”

I considered pointing out that it was Sooty who whispered into Mr Corbett’s ear whilst Sweep prattled away in that squeaky vibrato. But decided against it. For a number of reasons, the most important of which was the man was a loon.

As I know from personal experience, interacting with the barking on trains is not a good idea.  The “Do you want to see me put my head in a jam jar?” episode of 1997 and 2004’s  “Nude dancing cardigan,” sprang to mind.

We arrived at Darlington.

“Darlington? Fookin’ Shitehole!” New passengers glanced up at him without recalling the first law of The Nutter On A Train.

Avoid.

As we left Darlington, he stood. His trousers were so short that they revealed a portion of shin above the sock line.  Trouser length was not high on his list of priorities. It should be. For everyone.

Why not buy clothes of proportionate length?

He moved with a discernible limp indicating the need for corrective joint surgery in the near future. Hip or knee? I couldn’t in all honesty tell you.

“C’mon Sweep let’s go for a walk. Does anybody want to say hello to Sweep?”

The silence was profound. The new arrivals, cuckolded by their innocence sought the safety of laptops or newspapers. One scrambled by me,  presumably for the toilet, groaning loudly when noticing the Toilet Engaged sign was lit.  Maybe several passengers already cowered from The Geordie in there, oblivious to the marvellous  onboard waste storage system.

“Say hello to Sweep!” he would say with an undertow of naive menace. Passengers  muttered a nervous response.

As he bore down on me, my watch told me it was time for my hourly swivel. On train journeys in excess of two hours, I try to get a spot of exercise every hour by standing on the connecting plate between carriages and swivel as the train rounds a corner. It’s good fun. Mostly.

Alas, my iPod lead became tangled with the seat’s adjustable armrest. I am a fan of the adjustable armrest, often giving silent praise for their design. But not this time.

He was only two rows away. I tugged ferociously unable to free myself.

One row.

Still trapped.

“Say hello to Sweep!”

I looked up, the iPod lead still throttled the armrest. One of his Parka badges read, “I like Chicken”. He smiled revealing his half a dozen or so useable teeth. Skin tags erupted around the collar of his T-Shirt. He smelled of pee.

“Hello Sweep.”

Was I about to relive 2012’s, “Do you want to see my pet haddock? I keep it under me hat!” To this day the thought of fish causes my ear imbalance to flare up.

I needed a tinkle. Even though I had just been. Bladder shock.

He began to utter the dreaded phrase, “Is this seat fr……?”

The Guard announced our arrival into Durham station. Bobby Bonkers returned to his seat in order to bellow, “Durham? Fookin Shitehole!”

I was sweating profusely from this Close Encounter of The Deranged Mind.

I was safe. For the time being. The train pulled away. Ten minutes to Newcastle, my destination. I finally untangled the iPod lead, walked to the connecting plate between the two carriages and swiveled with gusto.

“Newcastle! Fookin Shitehole!”

The Geordie also left the train at Newcastle. I had a twenty yards on him but could hear him closing. Fast.

“Fookin’ Shitehole, Fookin’ Shitehole, Fookin’ Shitehole, Fookin’ Shitehole,” he barked, Sweep on one hand, three Morrison’s carrier bags in the other.

I made the barriers, presented my ticket and quickly moved through. I’m not a fan of the ticket barrier seeing them as a clumsy metaphor for corporate mistrust. But I was grateful they were here today.

The Geordie put down his bags. Sweep whispered in his ear.

“I know Sweep, I’ve got me ticket somewhere.”

He patted his pockets theatrically. I shuddered at the shortness of his trousers and made my way to the Taxi rank, eager to be away.

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Hello,

I visited my sister Roberta a fortnight ago to help her gangly wastrel partner Darren, a man who once tried to steal my roof, plumb in their new washing machine.

What I know about plumbing you could scrawl on the Dalai Lama’s pubic hair, but how can I refuse little Sis?

All the bending and straining plus the three cabbage a day diet worked its magic, so I left Darren battling the cold feed, tucked Roberta’s Cosmo under me arm and paid a visit to the facilities.

I learned that blandness is now a recognised cognitive disorder and that a woman from Argentina recently had her left kneecap shaped into the face of Michael Jackson. My veruccas tingled when I read this. Great fan of old Whacko I am. But here’s a tip from Uncle Bob.

Never Moonwalk after you have defecated and still have your trousers around your ankles. You will look stupid and the chances of having a cat break your fall are extremely rare.

I count myself lucky that Ernie, their dopey Tomcat was lounging to no effect outside the toilet and cushioned the impact of my fall.

After several flushes to send my waste (and parts of squashed Ernie) on its way to the Thames, I returned to Darren, now using extraordinarily fruity language as he engaged the hot feed.

Ernie’s whereabouts remain a mystery. Reckon I’ll keep quiet on that one. No point upsetting everyone.

The washing machine works a treat though. Every cloud and all that…………

Laters

Bob

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Vermeer_The_Girl_With_The_Pearl_Earring_(1665) copy

Hello Aunty

I recently had a new leg sewn on. Unfortunately the surgeon had been on the ale for several days and sewed a leg of lamb on by mistake. Whilst this caused initial embarrassment my boyfriend said not to worry as his head is made of cauliflower and his elbows are made of roast potatoes.

He said he always fancied roasting me and the leg of lamb just seems to spur him on.

Should I be worried?

Baaarbaaara, Sheppey

Dear Baaarbaaara;

I wouldn’t be too worried, this is early days and after allowing the leg to knit fully, a bit of lop sided walking should be possible with the aid of a shepherds crook for support.

Ewe should be aware that in less developed countries where prosthetics are in their infancy, animal/vegetable substitutes have been used for many years to replace missing or deformed body parts. In the Ewe K it’s still a relatively new form of surgery and considerably cheaper than going for the real thing.

Whilst out and about you’ll attract attention and the odd barbed comment but a quick word from the cauliflower kid and dig in the ribs from his Maris Pipers should avoid any unpleasant incidents.

You may be interested in reading the story of the Kathmandu Ken, the blind postman, who had the head of a domestic cat transplanted on to his shoulders after attending the vet instead of the local hospital (an easy mistake to make if you can’t see). His inspiring stories of being able to see in the dark, chase mice for food, sleep for 18 hours a day and clean his own arse make for truly inspiring reading.

Just keep the mint sauce under lock & key as you don’t want to be a midnight feast for your root cropped beau.

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Hello

This week’s request comes from a great friend of GFB, the wonderful Sue and her brilliant blog Lost In China which you can find HERE! – have a look – she will crack you up.

MORDOR – The very name causes hippies to set their bongs down.

SAURON – The Evil One, a man with a mighty big ring – The Evil Lord who – through his all seeing sausage (Pork with Apple) – sought to smite the smoten and throw the world into saturated fatty food  bondage……..(enough of this drivel).

sauron4 copy

As a bonus, here is evil Wizard SARUMAN drawing dark magical powers from his Quiche of DOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!!!!!

saruman copy

IS THERE ANYONE OR ANYTHING YOU WOULD LIKE A SAUSAGE ADDED TO? LET ME KNOW!

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Hello

About a year ago we cause quite a stir with this post about Gibbons, Banjos and the Diary of lost Missionary Obadiah Melordy, who was the first honky to witness Gibbons plucking banjos in their natural habitat.

Here once again are those revelatory images and the extract from Obadiah’s Diary

It was the American Baptist Missionary Obadiah Melordy in his zeal to convert the peoples of the Bangpang peninsula to all things Godly who discovered their talent.

His diary (published posthumously in 1907) recounts the extraordinary events;

March 23rd 1887

“There is still no sign of my banjo, taken two days hence from outside the tent whilst Mrs Melordy and I succumbed to the steamy surroundings in a rigorous bought of intercourse both sexual and social. My lovely wife had sought to reassure me that my instrument (which in an act of wanton sentimentality I had named Jefferson) would be returned with an immediacy that would allow us to draw a veil over this unfortunate act of larceny and Godlessness amongst the peoples of the peninsula.

Up to this point the natives had shown a typically witless savage charm when faced with superior Godly white folk. At approximately noon today however, they appeared restless and in a state of high dudgeon. Mrs Melordy attaching her seventh undergarment, advised me to draw back the flaps of the tent.

And lo! A sound, the like of which neither I nor my wife would ever have considered and Scripture had never prepared us for, swam around us. Banjos being played like a whispered lullaby.

“Mr Melordy! Jefferson is being strummed!” my wife declared, “I believe I can hear another. Now another! Now a fourth! Look up yonder in the lee of the great tree!”

My dutiful wife, so long a bastion of petticoated virtue fainted. I cast my gaze toward the direction of the sound expecting to see natives playing some simple, godless tune upon Jefferson.

Instead I saw a troop of Western Hoolock Gibbons, idly swinging in the trees strumming banjos, each with a practiced ease that took me back to the front porch of my Father’s stead in Kansas.

Within the notation I could hear the harmonies of a favourite Christmas Carol “Away in a Manger” sung by our small, but spiritually engaged community only three months previous to celebrate Our Lord’s birth. Truly a miracle.”

March 24th 1887

“It would appear from Nincompoop, our one eyed guide and valet that a startling event has unfolded. I had asked him to retrieve Jefferson from the light fingered Gibbons and in his innocent savage way he had set off at dawn eager to please me (They are such a happy people when guided by God’s word!)

He returned only to bid Mrs Melordy and I to follow him. With trepidation we followed. Only the sound of my beloved’s petticoats rustling under my tunic could be heard. Mrs Melordy fainted due to the Christian application of a whalebone corset.

We left a guide with her and moved on.

Nincompoop and I crept forward. Closer to the troop. We were greeted by a sight of such perspicacity and dexterity that I too nearly swooned. For in a clearing sat the large troop of Gibbons with the adults strumming Banjos.

A large male was threading a recently made instrument with steel wire, presumably stolen from our provisions. Around him were strewn several roughly made tools.

We watched. Amazed. Nincompoop produced an ancient revolver (a trophy from the earlier Wesleyite missionary St John Tabard of Sevenoaks, England, whose end has never been fully explained) and took a bawdy aim at the large male. I placed a hand on his shoulder and intimated that we back away and leave the troop to strum in peace.

March 25th 1887

I am pleased to say Mrs Melordy has fully recovered from her fainting fit and we had just completed another rigorous bought of intercourse, both sexual and social, when the Gibbons’ Banjos struck up once more.

This time they played a Waltz! Seized, I am ashamed to say by the Godless desire to dance, Mrs Melordy and I reeled for several minutes as we used to in our courting days before sadly she succumbed to the heat and fainted once more.

I am no longer convinced about the efficacy of Whalebone corsets and have vowed not to wear women’s under garments in the tropics.

As I awaited her revival I studied scripture. There was nothing I could find that  explain how Gibbons, low savage beasts as they are, could construct and play Banjo’s in such a delightful manner. I am perplexed.”

So are we Mr Melordy, so are we!

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